


Hetairoi

by preciouslittletime



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Childhood Memories, Handfasting, M/M, Practice Kissing, Saturdays are for the boys but make it early baroque, Swordplay, Yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:35:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25194019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/preciouslittletime/pseuds/preciouslittletime
Summary: When Hansol was born he was promised to Seungkwan.
Relationships: Background/Implied Kim Mingyu/Lee Seokmin | DK/Xu Ming Hao | The8, Boo Seungkwan/Chwe Hansol | Vernon
Comments: 37
Kudos: 221





	Hetairoi

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skateboardachoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skateboardachoo/gifts).



> Happy Ria Day! 
> 
> Hetairoi - taken from name of the companions of Alexander the Great. Translates roughly to “those near the King”
> 
> Thanks to Ariana and Billy for the help and support.

The courtyard is frenzied with activity, servants buzzing like horseflies around the parade of courtly men as they pass through the vintage portcullis of the Summer Palace. The palace itself is stately and stone covered, somewhere between a castle and a manor house. It would be austere if not for the thick moss on its face and the warm summer sunbeams freckled with pollen. 

Hansol observes Prince Seungkwan astride his brown palfrey, retinue behind him. The boys ride side by side like novice sisters in a cloister, noblemost closest to the prince, and of course Hansol at his side. The Prince’s Men as they call them. The collection of boys, unmarried, each one step from inheritance, or possessing a singular trait meant to educate and entertain the Prince. Seungkwan - preferring informality with those he’s closest to - calls them his brothers.

Seungkwan kicks at Hansol’s thigh from his perch on the horse, the tip of his boot catching on Hansol’s stirrup so that his horse nickers and shuffles in the sand. 

“Hansol? You’re daydreaming again.”

Hansol gives him an apologetic smile as he dismounts and monitors the groom who helps Seungkwan descend onto a mount step and to the ground below. Hansol is always distrustful of anyone who touches him, it’s his obligation to be.

“When are you going to move the court here permanently?” Hansol asks. He dutifully stands beside him, hands clasped and resting upon his rapier. Seungkwan’s neck arches, swanlike, as he looks up at the murky windows and he smiles until his cheeks dimple.

“And you tell me I’m the impatient one. I’m not the king, yet.”

The Summer Palace is fraught with memories. Since they were infants, they’d spend months here every year, away from the constraint of the city, in the dreamlike embrace of the countryside. It’s worlds away from the murkiness of court; the politics and the coldness and the heavy tension of ensuring Seungkwan’s safety. Here he feels like unfiltered light, free and shining. 

Somehow, Seungkwan had convinced his father to allow them to come one week earlier than the rest of the court this year. Hansol suspect the freedom like the subtlety of a misjudged wave. They’re 21 years old, and Seungkwan is still not married. He has no duties, not real ones anyhow, and he spends his days feasting - on food and wine as well as art and music and poetry. The freedom is the swell, the crest of the wave will rise when summer ends and he hopes that Seungkwan will be able to withstand the force of it.

Seungkwan touches him innocuously and he would have startled if not for the familiarity of it. A hand on his back and fingertips in patterns between the knots of his spine. The brocade of his doublet is constricting and the press of Seungkwan’s hand into the material makes him acutely aware of the sweat collecting underneath. 

He shifts under the touch, watches the eleven other men laugh and hoot amongst themselves, open a cask with the butt of a sword right in the middle of the courtyard. One of the kitchen maids fret about them and Seungkwan clicks his tongue. Seokmin and Soonyoung manage to stick their entire heads under the barrel and catch as much of the ale as they can into their waiting mouths. Most of it covers their faces and the angle of their bodies is too perfect for Jeonghan not to kick their feet out from underneath them so they fall flat into the ale-soaked sand below. 

“We have ill-behaved friends, don’t we?” Seungkwan grieves sarcastically.

Hansol simply hums in agreement.

“Stop that you animals. Can’t I take you anywhere?” the Prince yells to the men crowded around the barrel. They’ve seemingly magicked cups from thin air, all filling them to the brim and taking long drawing gulps. Only Chan turns and straightens in respectful bow, too young and new to the party to bite back at Seungkwan the way the others do. The way Soonyoung does as he holds the cup between two teeth and curtsies with the edges of his doublet daintily held between his fingers like a skirt.

Hansol snorts and Seungkwan stabs at him with a warning glare. His hand clutches at into the fabric where it rests at Hansol’s back, skims upwards until he can grip and ruffle his hair. The sensation makes him still, makes his mouth go dry, and he catches Joshua looking between the two of them. Joshua is the only one who knows.

Through the raucous laughter, the boiling feeling of his racing thoughts, Hansol can hear Seungkwan sigh. There’s a touch of a smile on his lips when he says, “I have a feeling we will be getting into some trouble before the week is out don’t you, Solie?”

*

_When Hansol was born he was promised to Seungkwan._

_Their mothers conspired to secure a marriage. They fell pregnant so close together that their children would likely enter the world like twins bore of different wombs._

_Seungkwan was born loudly. First his little cries and then the cathedrals mighty bells. Like drops of water fracturing the serenity of a pond – waves of ripples outwards._

_Hansol was born quiet - without grandeur - and with disappointment at his sex._

*

They feast on the first night as if it’s a wedding celebration. The main hall is cavernous with mighty wooden beams overhead and a glowing hearth large enough for entire family to live comfortably without the flame. Candlelight and drink make the atmosphere hazy, too hot for them to wear heavy formal clothing. Instead they are in varying states of undress, laces and stings hanging long forgotten like festival ribbons from a lady’s skirt.

Hansol sits beside Seungkwan at the massive wooden table. Seungkwan lazily plucks cheese off Hansol’s plate, Hansol sips from Seungkwan’s copper cup. They laugh into one another’s space like over steeped tea as Seungcheol and Jeonghan bicker about a game of cards played several weeks before.

“Demanding a rematch won’t make your chances any better,” Seungkwan yells over the noise. “We all know it’s not worth betting if you’re playing against him or Joshua.”

Joshua chokes on a glass of wine. “What have I done?” he protests.

“You’re both cheats,” Jihoon says sagely. “Shameless ones.”

“I had to break up a fight in a tavern a month ago because you wagered more than you had and got caught shoving cards up your sleeve,” Mingyu adds huffily. He’s the largest of all of them, the most physically intimidating, but he has the countenance of a lamb. Possibly the most kind of their party, aside from Seokmin. 

Jeonghan scoffs. “It didn’t even come to blows. Don’t be so dramatic.”

“I’d win at more games if you weren’t such a snake about things,” Seungkwan grumbles. 

Jeonghan just bursts into laughter. “If you say so, your highness.” 

Out of the three oldest noble boys among The Prince’s Men he’s the most like a prodding older brother to them. Hansol had his fair share of moments consoling Seungkwan over a game lost “in fairness”. Seungkwan has always been too choleric, and the court physician still forces tonics down his throat that haven’t helped in twenty-one years.

“Suppose we duel then?” Seungkwan nips with the pucker of his lips. Jeonghan’s eyebrows raise challengingly, but he presses his mouth into a thin line and glances in Hansol’s direction. Most of the men do. Ever the Prince’s keeper.

“Not tonight,” Hansol whispers calmly. He cautions a hand onto Seungkwan’s thigh, giving him a reassuring squeeze. The tenderness of the flesh makes Hansol draw his hand back, remembering himself, the distance he promised himself internally. Seungkwan’s eyes meet his and he sucks his teeth in playful resentment, only there’s a touch of his temper still creased between his brows.

“You never let me have any fun,” he sulks.

By the time the moon is high and illuminated in the clear sky above, Seungkwan releases the servants and staff for rest. It casts silver light through the large windows, refracting through the cloudy glass and mixing with the candlelight. Golden warmth and silver glow and too much sweet wine.

Junhui plays a violin while he stands on a chair – a jaunty folk tune they all know the words to so that they can sing along with his playing. Jihoon and Wonwoo drum their fists in time so the rest of the men can dance, and Hansol is too drunk to stand, let alone spin in endless circles and send the world into upheaval. No doubt the rest of the men are too with the way they stumble over each other and clap slightly off the beat. They make do without any women as partners, giving dramatic performances of courtly ladies. Seokmin demurely gives Soonyoung a bat of his eyelashes behind a fan as they touch hands in the center of the circle and Hansol throws his head back with laughter. 

Seungkwan pairs with Seungcheol and they grasp hands and spin each other around with their weight keeping them from flying off to opposite sides of the room. Seungkwan’s hair is plastered back with the force of it, his mouth wide and gasping around laughter. Hansol can feel the ever-present thudding of his heart when he sees Seungkwan in fits of joy. His wild peeling giggles and his sharp yelps when his sides start to ache with them.

When they part Seungkwan is wobbly but manages to slap Seungcheol square in the chest while the two of them laugh. “That was too fast!”

Hansol watches him carefully stagger in his direction. Face like calla lilies, hair glued to his forehead with sweat. He catches himself on Hansol’s chair and leans so close Hansol can taste the wine on his breath.

“Dance with me, Hansol,” he whines. “Seungcheol is staging a coup d’état. Did you see him trying to throw me against the stone?”

“Kwan, I’m too drunk,” Hansol laments. He lifts one hand to grab his cup of ale and misses the handle twice. Before he can put it to his lips Seungkwan’s dainty hand covers the opening and slams it back against the table.

“I demand it,” he says, with a pompous little tip of his chin towards the beams above them. Hansol loves him this way. When he’s haughty and exacting. A prince indeed.

He preens with his eyes squinted shut when Hansol stands and takes his sweaty hand. It gives Hansol enough time to admire how his untied doublet is sweetgrass green and presents the slightest peek of his tapered waist. Hansol’s hands itch to touch him there, they prickle with the knowledge that Seungkwan would squirm, strike his hands away, flush with embarrassment.

They stand shoulder to shoulder on the perimeter of the circle, admiring how Minghao seems weightless in Mingyu’s arms. Hansol is dull-witted enough this far into the night to consume the spectacle of it. The shocked, high laughter from Minghao, his bony fingers interlaced around Mingyu’s neck, and Mingyu’s warm stare lacking a sense of social grace. Hansol holds away the memory of it like parchment, hides it in the back of his mind like the hidden compartment under a loose stone in the wall of the cellar. 

When it’s their turn, the cheers of the men get louder and louder until Hansol’s ears ring. He lets Seungkwan yank him towards the center and stands straight backed as Seungkwan plays his role. He pantomimes having skirts, twists his hips as he steps in perfect time to orbit Hansol like unknowing prey. 

It would be devastating if Seungkwan wasn’t making it so comedic. He blows him kisses and Hansol catches them, boldly pressing them to his lips and Seungkwan looks scandalized. They set into their dance as if it’s practiced and Hansol is proud that he doesn’t manage to trip or vomit with the amount of ale in his belly. 

They traipse around each other and Hansol knows he’s smiling wide because he can feel the air on his gums. Between the violin and the clapping, the pounding of the table and the hollering of the boys, Hansol must hone his focus on Seungkwan in order to maintain sanity. Which is mistake because Seungkwan falls forward into his chest with laughter and he wraps his arms around him to keep him close. All he can hear is Seungkwan’s heavy breathing in his ear. All he can smell is Seungkwan’s sweat on his neck. All taste is the warmth in the air of the hall and the bitterness of a beautiful thing.

*

_When Hansol was thirteen he wasn’t particularly interested in studying._

_He shared a curriculum with Seungkwan and several of the other noble-born sons at court. All were relegated to formal education at the encouragement of the King. In the name of progression they are taught of the humanities; history, literature, philosophy, music, art. Private tutors are employed like a small army for the fact that there are many subjects and for the fact that there are many unruly boys who would rather be focusing their minds on other endeavors. Hansol for instance was receiving lessons with a sword and would much rather swing that around than a quill. Mostly he made funny faces with Seungkwan in secret trying to get the other to laugh._

_Instead, he sat while the rain poured down the windowpanes, watching the maze-like paths the water took down the cross-crossed iron. Seungkwan struggled to stay awake at his side, wrapped in furs to keep away the chill. His round cheeks tucked against the fox tails under his chin. Every so often Hansol drummed his fingers on Seungkwan’s knee, so he wouldn’t drift off and face the disappointment of his father. Seungkwan was the type to apologize for something for weeks._

_He couldn’t really recall the finer details of the day in their lessons, only the rain, the furs, the way Seungkwan napped through lessons. He remembered the tutor speaking vaguely of the Helenes, the great wars and heroes. Of Homer and Herodotus._

_He remembered Alexander and the Persians and the horses. Of Hephaestion far from home willing to follow his King past the edges of the earth. He wondered if Hephaestion was frightened of war the way he was, if he ever showed how terrified he was to hold a sword. If he loved Alexander the way Hansol did Seungkwan, like they were two halves of the same whole and if it was as unknowable a feeling to Hephaestion as it was to Hansol then._

_Hansol knew, at thirteen, what his purpose was. Reimagined from a betrothal into another companionship that was depthless and frightening in a way marriage would never be._

_He watched Seungkwan’s easy grin as they stole bread and grapes from the larder that night, ate them in the garden where the soil smelled like iron, and let their lessons drift away into the cloudy sky, forgotten._

_“Do you think we will ever go to war?” Hansol asked, a toe dipped in the waters. He maintained the air of disinterest but shook with the childlike fear of violence._

_“When I’m king,” Seungkwan pontificated. “I’ll ban all wars.”_

_“I don’t think you can do that.”_

_“Who says?”_

_“My mother says I always have to keep an eye on you. To make sure you don’t get hurt.” As if that was explanation enough. He’d always had a habit of speaking where it left the other participant with only half of the conversation._

_“Sometimes I don’t think you’ve thought your words out carefully before you say them.”_

_They were caught by a guard out of bed and Hansol took the blame._

_Hansol remembered that on that rainy day in November, when he was only thirteen, he struggled with the idea of dying for something. He resolved that if anything was worth dying for, it would be his best friend._

*

On the grounds there is a garden, hidden in stone walls, the way an oyster holds a pearl. When they were boys they’d play among the flowers and Seungkwan would be a fairy king and Hansol would trample the fallen petals. Hansol wakes early on the first morning to steal time away so he can write. Seungkwan finds him there, brings him scraps from breakfast, an orange to share.

Now Hansol rests his back on the stone, sat on wooden bench, with Seungkwan’s head in his lap – his preferred position when they were in private, natural to both of them. The sunshine is punishing and without any of their parents to admonish them, all the boys have forgone any clothing aside from the relief of simple linen shirts and breeches. Seungkwan has even shed his stockings and lets his bare feet brush along the grass.

Hansol can’t stop himself from looking at the moonlight white tone of Seungkwan’s chest where his shirt parts in the middle. His eyes are closed, apples of his cheeks like the rows of pink lavandulas, skin like lilies. Hansol mindlessly scratches at Seungkwan’s scalp as he scribbles on fluttering parchment by his side. Seungkwan nestles in amongst the flowers and Hansol has learned their names.

“We should go for a swim with the rest of them,” Seungkwan sighs. The tone of his voice gives away that he’s nearly asleep. 

Hansol smiles, soft, and pulls his hand away to double his efforts. “A few more lines first. Though, I could use a swim.”

Seungkwan doesn’t open his eyes, but he impatiently grabs Hansol’s arm and yanks it back to his head like a spoiled child. “Don’t stop doing that though.”

“Yes, your highness,” Hansol says dryly, carding through Seungkwan’s hair again. Seungkwan sputters at the formality, smacks Hansol’s back and knocks a laugh out of him. It’s peaceful like this. Where Hansol can share his affections without wandering eyes. Without Joshua’s catlike stare and the knowing jut of his bottom lip. Their serene garden, a place where they’ve always played pretend.

“Hansol?”

“Hm.”

“I asked a question. You’re always in your own world, aren’t you?”

Hansol smiles timidly.

“What are you writing? New verse?” Seungkwan repeats with an edge, but not lacking in interest. 

“Nosy. You’ll see.” Hansol must hold the parchment with his knee to keep it from flying away in the breeze. It flutters the pages, Seungkwan’s syrup brown hair. 

“I hate waiting.” Seungkwan opens his eyes and squints up at Hansol, the late morning sun making his irises tiny pin pricks. Hansol is lost in the color, caged in the curve of his eyelashes. He’s resolved not recall the memory, but it creeps along his shoulders like a wolf stalking prey.

“Your hair and the sun. It’s like a halo,” Seungkwan says quietly. His hand reaches up, pushes Hansol’s blonde waves off his forehead. 

Hansol catches on the wind. His shirt sleeves billow. He floats away with the blossoms.

*

_When Hansol was sixteen he took a vow._

_It was a year of liberty and solitude, Hansol’s family returned to their estate and Seungkwan’s sisters both left to live with respective husbands. There was the ache of growing older and the anxiety of maturity. It was no longer appropriate for Seungkwan to sneak into Hansol’s room after he had a nightmare and Hansol knew that courtiers cast dispersions when they held hands on their walks._

_It was an unusually warm day in September when they stood like wooden toy soldiers, lined up against the wall, watching young men take their oaths at the foot of the King. The ritual was for show, a holdover of times long gone by, but the implications remain. A well-choreographed dance of politics to press a thumb down on potential rebellion. Soonyoung, Jihoon, and Wonwoo would take theirs._

_Seungkwan stood beside his father, gold circlet crowning his head for the pageantry. He was festooned with a lace collar that made him look like a doll, pearls draping his chest to hold the capelet over his shoulders. The ornamental sword in his father’s hand looked too heavy for Seungkwan to carry, let alone rest upon the shoulders of men who would go off to die for him if ever asked._

_They met beneath a willow tree where fireflies dance like stars falling to earth. The banquet was over, but courtiers mulled about the corridors and halls like louses too fickle to leave. Hansol and Seungkwan passed a wineskin between them._

_“Do you think I’ll be a good king?” Seungkwan asked._

_“Of course, I do.”_

_“You aren’t impartial,” Seungkwan tutted._

_“Then why ask me?”_

_“I’m not sure.”_

_“Everyone who’s ever met you, loves you Seungkwan.”_

_It was the absolute truth. While Hansol grew quieter, Seungkwan bloomed with age. He reached towards the sky like a sunflower, shooting up green and taking in the light. His charisma, his social graces, his lovely voice when he sang at his father’s request. Everyone was dazzled by him. Hansol was dazzled by him._

_“It will be an honor to serve you someday,” Hansol assured quietly._

_“You already do, I think. Nobody lets me go anywhere without you.” Seungkwan laughed._

_“I don’t mind.”_

_He would be called to participate in the ceremony soon enough. Yet foregoing any irrational spin on the wheel of fortune, he would kneel before Seungkwan’s father. He would never get the opportunity to pledge himself to Seungkwan. The fervor of youth was colored with impulse, dyed with it like fabric until it bleeds in warm waters. He surged with it. Something strange and fierce burned in him to pledge fealty. To consummate the bond foisted upon them._

_Seungkwan questioned the necessity of a ceremony so serious. Seungkwan promised him that he knew he was loyal, that he felt safer with him by his side._

_“We don’t have the sword, or a bishop,” Seungkwan whined._

_“Seungkwan,” he said. “Just let me. How else do I get you to believe it?”_

_Hansol was struck with the idea to remove the lace of his collar, twisted it between his hands into a cord. As he dropped to his knee, Seungkwan shrunk under the vines of the willow and in the pale light his flushed cheeks were ashen. The lace Hansol wrapped around their clasped hands was a steely blue. The childish part of him made his voice shake, but the man in him kept his eyes trained upwards on Seungkwan’s despite the way he looked at the sodden ground beneath his feet. He could feel, with their hands fasted, the quaking of Seungkwan’s body up through his shoulders._

_“I promise on my faith that I will in the defend my Prince, his honor, and his kingdom. I promise that if I shall die defending my Prince then I shall die with honor. I promise that I will love him more than no other. I promise that if I disobey my Prince or let harm befall him, may my Prince redeem me.”_

_Boys too young to be making promises. Hansol remembered the weight of Seungkwan’s palms, the saturation of the lace in the moonlight. They were so young then._

*

By the third day they’ve ridden out to a lake on the crown’s lands that’s small enough for the men to swim from one side to the other. Each pass displacing the algae and forcing the water higher up into the marshy banks. They race several times until their arms and legs ache from the exertion. They dry themselves on the gritty shoreline like stock fish, bodies lined up in the sand and skin burning under the sun. 

Seungkwan lies beside Hansol with his arms tucked under his head, eyes closed as they all drift into unconsciousness. It’s silent, aside from the far way buzz of bees, birds chittering in the trees further up in the field. In the peace Hansol cautions his head to the side so he can get a clearer view of the rise and fall of Seungkwan’s chest, the convex shape of his belly from the arch of his back. Rivulets of water skim down his temples into the sand and beads of it cluster in his eyelashes. 

There is a thunderous moment of impulse he has - to reach out and touch Seungkwan’s bare skin. The rest of the men are napping in the sunlight, Joshua’s eyes are closed, he won’t see. Would it be so strange? Seungkwan likely wouldn’t question him. He’s used to Hansol’s touch. Only, the comforting press of a palm to the other’s back, or a compassionate clasp of a hand; those are innocent, safe, absentminded. This is the intentional, the desire that scorches in his gut. Hansol clutches his fists, stares straight into the sun until he sees violet spots.

By midday they’ve spread out across the long grass on horse blankets to eat what the kitchen maids have packed in their saddlebags. Hansol is resting against a tree trunk, one knee propped up so he can balance a cup of wine, the other leg resting and serving as a pillow for Seungkwan’s head. Between them they pass a pomegranate, both working in tandem to peel it. Seungkwan licks the juice from his wrists, from between his fingers. Hansol puts seeds in Seungkwan’s expecting mouth once they wrestle it into halves. The taste makes Hansol pucker and Seungkwan mimics his face.

Far off down the bank Seokmin and Mingyu watch Minghao painting cattails. Minghao’s shirt is untucked, hanging loose around his slight frame so it catches in the breeze like a woman’s chemise. Mingyu is still bare-chested when he slides a hand up the center of Minghao’s back to the nape of his neck, leaning in close to admire the brush strokes. Minghao freezes like a cat grabbed by the scruff and Seokmin beams conspiratorially at whatever expression is on Minghao’s face. Hansol can only hear the clip of consonants from the distance and the way Seokmin and Mingyu drop their voices low into private conversation. Seokmin’s lips pressed against Minghao’s ear with a smile.

Their relationship is curious. Ever since the patronage – Mingyu’s noble coffers and Seokmin’s merchant wealth and the two in their narrow little home tucked into the city like a book on a library shelf. Minghao lives with them and paints in the conservatory where the sunlight is bright. Seungkwan demanded to see the room for himself once it was built. It’s a warm, erratic place, filled with the scent of paint and citrus – the former from Minghao’s blending pigments and the latter from the lemons Seokmin’s father brought from the South.

An unconscionable part of him makes him envious of the way they live. 

“Did you ever finish what you were writing, Sol?” Seungkwan asks, and it shocks Hansol to turn away from the three men down the lake as if he’s been caught criminal.

“Oh,” he releases his anxious gasp of breath. “Yes. Yesterday evening.”

Hansol wordlessly reaches into the wooden box beside him, attempting to keep the leg under Seungkwan’s head still as to not disturb him. Both their fingertips are stained pomegranate red when they pass the parchment between each other. 

It’s frightening, still, to let Seungkwan read his verse. It’s almost as if he’s cutting himself open with a dagger, allowing Seungkwan to shove his fingers inside the wound and pluck out the exposed bone. But, Seungkwan transforms Vernon’s prose into song. Like Adam taking his rib with the intention of creation.

“Jihoon, Joshua, bring your instrument,” Seungkwan calls and without requiring an explanation both men come to him. Although, Jihoon looks entirely displeased to have been roused.

“Oh no, no,” Hansol tries to object. “Right now?”

Seungkwan just swats at the inner part of his thigh. “Hansol this is very beautiful and also I command it.”

They descend around the ink with hushed counsel. Joshua rests on his knees with his lute on his lap, strumming along to the notes Jihoon calls as he scans across the page. Seungkwan readjusts his body so he can rest his back against the trunk along with Vernon and their shoulders press together through the fabric of their shirts.

When Seungkwan sings the air becomes heavy. As if the very weight of it slows time, stops the passing path of the sun in the sky. Joshua strums and Jihoon nods to the rhythm and Seungkwan is like a songbird with music rising out of him as if it was birthed there. Hansol watches the bow of his upper lip, the strain of his throat, the gentleness of his eyelids as they close with the length of a note. 

The verse is about the bloom of a rose, fleeting, and how it’s sorely missed. Something introspective and metaphorical that Hansol knows he should feel a relative amount of embarrassment for even putting into ink. Yet, Seungkwan’s voice is like a salve on the burn of it. 

Only the burn finds itself rooting deeper when Seungkwan turns his head to Hansol, so their eyes meet and their noses brush from the proximity. And suddenly the bell chime voice is like a twisting knife. 

It makes him feel weak, grateful for the bark digging into his back to keep him upright. Seungkwan’s soft voice and his tender eyes illuminated in the sunlight and the way he sings Hansol’s words like an arrow he’s shot ricocheting back at him directly in the heart. As if Seungkwan shares Hansol’s yearning verse and the words don’t sound so foolish anymore. They don’t sound like the ramblings of a man with something trapped in him and no key to fit the lock that holds it there.

Out of the corner of his eye he can see Joshua, questioning and perceptive and holding a secret. Hansol must choose either to let himself be blinded by the attention of his Prince or the glitter of sunlight dancing on the lake. He chooses the latter.

*

_When Hansol was eighteen he discovered something insidious._

_Seungkwan was beginning to be called away to his father’s rooms more often than he had before and implored to study the finer intricacies of ruling a kingdom. This meant Hansol was left with more time than he was ever used to having alone and in the long absences felt like a missing limb. The awareness that something should be there. The realization of their co-dependency made him uneasy._

_He was taking a liking to writing more than he ever expected to. Words came easier to him than his tutor had predicted and while he still struggled with academic discussion, he flourished with contemplation in the form of verse. It was a release of many things at the time; mounting frustrations with blooming of manhood and the tangle of sentiments he could never find the correct words to express._

_Before the wide wooden door and long narrow staircase leading to the King’s apartments, there was a drawing room. Often it was used for entertainment and was decorated with mighty dark wooden panels amongst the stone. On one side there was a set of windows that cast murky light onto the collection of artworks the King had accumulated throughout the years on the throne._

_Often the boys would collect there like statuettes, perched amongst the frames. Wonwoo would read in one particular chair, Joshua would play cards with Hansol when his inspiration was drained enough. Jeonghan would practice his palmistry on whomever was willing and drop their hands the second anyone entered the room._

_It was Springtime when he was there alone with Minghao, and out of all the boys he preferred his company the best. They would sit in companionable silence. Hansol stained his fingernails with ink and Minghao would sketch the great works with charcoal until his sleeves were grey. Both appreciating the beauty of things in their unique way, Hansol through metaphor, Minghao through color._

_The open windows let the heady smell of honeysuckle drift through the room and Hansol wished he could look at a painting with the same reverence and understanding as Minghao did. He dropped his quill, allowed himself a breath of focus so he could possess Minghao’s mind as he tipped his head up in admiration to the gilded frames. Minghao was sketching the wings of an angel and Hansol traced the original work with his eyes. He tried to understand the meaning, categorically observing the image inch by inch:_

_The deep shadow, nearly black and the warm light irradiating over the face of the angel. The bareness of his arm and the milk cream of his neck as he raised an arrow in hand poised to strike down. The bounce of curls mid-movement and the man prostrate below with legs spread wide and hip bared._

_“His highness has asked to sit for a portrait with Minghao” came a voice behind him, he hadn’t even heard anyone enter._

_He found himself blinking quickly, casting his eyes away. His fingertips prickled as if he’d gone numb, neck burned as if he’d been in the sun for too long. He wasn’t aware he’d been biting the inside of his cheek until the copper taste of blood hit the back of his tongue when he swallowed._

_When he turned Seokmin was glowing with praise at his beneficiary. His white teeth and big smile and Mingyu beside him, proud in equal measures. Joshua peered at Hansol over Mingyu’s shoulder, following the pattern of his eyes over the painting, then over Hansol’s reddened cheeks. It was the first of many times Joshua’s acuity was to his detriment._

_There had been times, yes, where desire speared through him like a lance. It was easy to ignore before, to redirect towards the appropriate sex. The ladies at court would stare often, he found that he enjoyed their attention, their gaze. Seungkwan’s sisters had teased him before about finding their ladies and maids whispering when he entered the room. He’d even taken to wearing a particular sky-blue long coat that they’d all brooded over and danced with one of the bolder girls who’d complimented how it brought out the green shade in his eyes._

_And yet._

*

The morning rain on the fifth day makes riding nearly impossible. They’re sequestered to the grounds until the paths aren’t sloppy with mud, but thankfully the cloud cover and residual drizzle offers relief from the heat. They’re all half-drunk on ale too early in the day, lazing in the main hall over breakfast and listening to Joshua trying to teach Chan how to play his lute. 

Seungkwan and Seokmin will try to pick up the song and sing, but Chan will panic and skips a string each time they do. Seungkwan will give him a reproachful stare and Chan will puff up and complain about how nervous he is and the singing only compounding it. Over and over again in circles they go.

Hansol perches himself in a chair by the window and balances his cup on his stomach with his thighs. Seungkwan eventually joins him by jumping up to plop himself on the windowsill just beside his head. Without speaking, he pushes Hansol’s head back far enough so it can rest on his lap and he can twist strands of hair around his fingers.

“This is dull,” Jeonghan gripes, cheek resting on Seungcheol’s shoulder. 

“Would you like to ride out in the rain and mud, Hannie?” Seungcheol smirks. “I would think you too proper for that.”

“There must be something else we can do to entertain ourselves.” 

“Entertain ourselves or entertain you?” Seungkwan quips. His laughter jostles Hansol’s head who tips back just enough to squint up at him. In truth he could fall asleep like this if it weren’t for Seungkwan’s inability to be still. He’s envious of Junhui and Wonwoo already curled up and resting in their own chairs, taking advantage of the small patch of cloudy light that fights through the windows. They’ve been drinking too much and too consistently for any of them to not need rest. 

“We could play a game?”

“With you?” Minghao says, lips pressed into a line. Seokmin laughs around a mouthful of food.

“Suppose you finally accept my offer for a duel?” Seungkwan hums. He abandons Hansol’s curls to pick at his own fingernails, unbothered at his own challenge. Hansol sits upright and looks at him in vigilance.

Jeonghan purses his lips and tucks his hair behind his ear. There’s a pregnant silence in the hall as Jeonghan mulls the idea over, eyes getting narrower by the second. He flashes his eyes at Minghao and then repeats his words, only this time directed at the Prince.

“With you?”

Seungcheol snickers. 

“Of course, with me,” Seungkwan prickles. “Who else?”

“Could you not see how that may not work in my favor?” Jeonghan retorts. He certainly has a point. Even with dulled rapiers the chance of injury is high, albeit non-lethal. If Jeonghan were to cause him any harm the repercussions could be endless, possibly fatal. While Seungkwan was unlikely to tattle, he wasn’t very skilled with lying.

Seungkwan broadens his chest with a roll of his shoulders. He has a tight little smirk where the corner of his lips fold inward and Hansol knows the look in his eyes well enough to spot the mischief. “Well if you’re so afraid…”

Jeonghan’s eyes are like coal, black and simmering with covert heat. “Cowardice and self-preservation aren’t quite the same, your highness.” Several heart beats of silence, Jeonghan’s deceptively placid exterior hiding the flurry of thoughts. “Fancy I picked a proxy?” Jeonghan says and his eyes dart to meet Hansol’s with a saccharine grin. “Hansol?”

Seungkwan is nearly in his lap with the speed at which he comes to enter Hansol’s immediate space and pouts his lip. They had learned swordwork together, hours on hours as boys holding featherlight foils Purple bruises and clammy brows and Seungkwan bowing his head to their instructor each time he placed his heel wrong and swung his rapier like an axe. It had been years since they’d practiced with each other.

“Why do you want to fight so badly?” Hansol gives Seungkwan a reticent smile.

“Precisely because nobody will ever accept my challenges.” Seungkwan whispers back.

“You’re a crown prince....” Hansol offers, as an explanation.

“You all just assume I will lose.”

“I did practice with you, you know.” 

“Oh? And what, pray tell, is that supposed to mean.” Seungkwan leans back, speaks loud enough for the entire room to hear. His arms are crossed, and the laces of his sleeves are tied in precise little bows. Hansol knows he’s stoking the flames and he can feel the pull at the corner of his mouth where the beginning of a cocky smirk is forming. 

“I’m just saying...I’m not… _assuming_.”

“That’s it!” Seungkwan yanks him by the arm, sending his cup onto the floor and pouring the last of its contents of ale onto the wooden boards. “We require foils!” he yells to the servants and the men spring into action, rearranging the tables so there is space enough for combat.

The rules of dueling to Hansol are ingrained in his mind despite having never truly participated in one - he didn’t particularly _care_ for fighting regardless of what his pseudo-position entailed. He’s practiced enough, but never been challenged. If he’s ever had to proxy for Seungkwan’s hot-bloodedness, he’s deescalated the conflict before it came to something so serious. But this is playful, decidedly not serious - even though Seungkwan will treat it that way if he loses. They’re exchanging giddy smiles across the floor as they inspect the weight and balance of the unfamiliar weapons. 

“Do you still remember the rules, your highness?” Chan asks earnestly. The rest of the men are seated like a polite audience beside them. Seungkwan points his foil in Chan’s direction.

“You’ve never even had a fight, don’t distract me.”

“I have!” Chan tries to argue, but the men all laugh at the suggestion of it. 

“Wagers?” Jeonghan asks. “Loser has to dive nude into the pond?” 

Seungcheol nudges him. “Careful now, Hannie. Hansol is only your proxy.”

“You think our future Grand Constable would lose in a duel? Tut tut.”

Hansol rolls his eyes at the suggestion of the title and shakes his head in Jeonghan’s direction. He rests his foil against the table so he can tie up the loose laces of his shirts, see that his stockings won’t slide down his calves, slides the singular brown leather glove over his dominant hand. Seungkwan pridefully watches over the tip of his nose with his perfect dimpled cheeks and cocks his head.

“Are you stalling?”

Hansol quirks and eyebrow, shakes his hair from his eyes, and settles the weight of the hilt into his hand. With a flourish he swings his foil from side to side and it whistles as it cuts through the damp air. “I don’t rush into things the way you do, Kwannie.”

“No, you slump into things.”

They salute, as per tradition, with the tips of the foils. Seungkwan’s attempt at appearing intimidating goes over poorly. The second he draws his eyebrows together there’s a chorus of peeling laughter to Hansol’s right. He doesn’t look - _never take your eyes off an opponent_ \- but Seungkwan does, piqued and indignant. Hansol lunges.

Seungkwan has the reflex to block the blow with the tinkling sound of dull metal striking metal. He gives Hansol a shocked set of wide eyes and Hansol crinkles his nose. 

“That was cheating,” Seungkwan argues. He takes his own set of lunging step, favoring his right foot and wide swinging strokes. Hansol parries, ignoring the openings Seungkwan provides to preserve his pride. 

“Your footwork hasn’t improved much,” Hansol mutters and Seungkwan gapes. Another swing, another block from Hansol. This time he catches the tip of Seungkwan’s sword at the base of the handle and Seungkwan steps in close.

“You’re still pigeon-toed,” Seungkwan retorts with the purse of his lips, biting back at Hansol’s insult. The boys laugh but Hansol ignores them for favor of turning their positions. He circles Seungkwan, foils touching, and draws him to face the other way so he’ll have to use his weaker left foot to lead.

“I’m still the better dancer,” Seungkwan adds. He aims low, jolts forward trying to hit the outside of Hansol’s thigh. Hansol blocks him and laughs. They step too wide and cover far too much ground. Seungkwan tries to back him into corners by using his long-armed swinging and his penchant for the offensive. 

Hansol remains on the defensive as always, using strength while Seungkwan uses speed. He finds himself with his back pressed against one of the tables and the men jeer at the position. It’s perilous and he must use his shoulder to knock Seungkwan far enough back to escape it. 

For all the dramatic shock on his face at having been touched with something other than metal, he seems delighted that Hansol had to resort to using it all. Something simmers in Hansol as he regains his poised position back in the middle of the floor. Everything to do with Seungkwan’s disheveled brown hair and full-lipped smirk, the pleased look in his eyes. 

“Anyone still assuming I’ll lose? Watch and learn everyone,” he says as he turns to the men with a hand on the hip. Hansol coughs out a laugh at the arrogant way he addresses his audience and it earns him a moment to push the curls from his eyes with his bare hand. 

They’re quieter as the move into the next phase and it takes on relative competitive edge compared to the banter of the previous moments. Seungkwan _has_ improved. Which is strange due to Hansol never seeing him practice with a sword. But he’s firm, uses the might of his lower body and thighs to root himself into the floorboards. Without the bluster he’s regained control over his arms and keeps his elbows close to his hips where they ought to be. There’s a supernatural grace to the way he moves now that he’s had the encouragement of gaining the upper-hand on his supposed protector. 

Hansol finds himself distracted by it. The way the Prince moves like a King. Not so much the little doughy boy he liked fishing with when he was six. More like a man full of vivacity and radiance poised to lead and command. Thrumming with the power he would yield one day instead of cowering from it. 

Seungkwan moves whip fast and Hansol is stunned. He parries as best he can, the _tink tank_ sounds of their foils clashing, but the reverie only produces a defensive he can’t quite regain control of. The heel of his shoe catches a knot in the wood as he slides his foot back out of Seungkwan’s range. It sends him tumbling backwards and he hits the floor with his shoulders so hard it knocks the air out through ribs.

He’s astonished when he finds his gloved hand empty, foil cast away out of arm's reach, and Seungkwan lording over him with foil in hand. There’s a self-satisfied smile on his face when he presses the tip into Hansol’s belly. It’s like the strike of lightning when it makes contact and Seungkwan is sharp with glee at his success. 

Though he doesn’t finish his performance with the touch that signals the end of the duel. He keeps his eyes trained on Hansol’s and then rakes them downwards to where metal meets fabric, and he drags the tip up the center of Hansol’s chest until the dull foil cuts the careful threadwork of the brocade of his doublet. And Hansol can’t stop the tremor in his bones, the boil of his blood, the way it stirs up a flurry in his stomach. The feeling is easily identifiable. He’s trying desperately to tamp it down, but Seungkwan is panting raggedly with exertion and the metal is cold as it catches between his collarbones. 

Seungkwan makes a show of tracing the tip over Hansol’s throat and up against the cut of his jaw. There’s a look in his eyes, fiery and wanton and Hansol can’t help the soft groan that falls from his lips. He digs his hands into the wood, the pain of his bare fingernails bending against the unforgiving density act as an anchor. That feeling, the one he knows, but wants to hide from. The conservation of knowing a predator lurks and the denial of it at your heels. 

It strikes with sharp teeth when Seungkwan lifts Hansol’s chin with the tip of the foil, forcing his hair to pull at his scalp when he edges his head back. The sound he makes is quiet, but licentious and quivering as it rattles in his chest. He closes his eyes, tries to count from one to ten, from ten to one, recite psalms to regain the composure. His hips shift against the wood and Seungkwan gasps softly.

“Are you alright? Hansol, what’s wrong?”

Hansol opens his eyes and Seungkwan’s gaze is dangerous before it softens into confusion. He could cower under the table if he followed his impulse. Every part of him begs him to try it. To disappear and not take into consideration that not only was he feeling arousal, but that Seungkwan had detected it. 

Seungkwan has one bare hand reached out and Hansol must take to quell the suspicions. He sucks his tongue to the roof of his mouth, chooses deliberately to use his gloved hand to be lifted to his feet. He worries that if he touches Seungkwan’s skin that he’ll rupture and he was never one for compulsiveness. 

The men appear around them and Hansol notices how loud they’ve been, that the hum in his ears was their voices all along. Jeonghan’s nasally whine loudest of all as he lists the reasons why he shouldn’t be the one to take the punishment for Hansol’s carelessness. He offers new wagers, proposes new duels. Hansol’s world is too narrow and Joshua’s eyes are too lovely to ignore. He catches them and swallows hard, the silence between them loud like musket fire.

Seungkwan basks in the glory of adulation before he re-enters Hansol’s space and the proximity makes him twitch. With the two hands, one cased in leather and the other bare, Seungkwan cups Hansol’s flushed cheeks. It makes his hair stand on end, makes the room tilt dizzyingly. Seungkwan’s heaving breaths ghosting over Hansol’s lips and the distance between them too close. Adrenaline and shame mixing like oil and water, discernable and repugnant. 

“Did I hurt you? Are you alright? You looked like you were in pain and I think I took the act too far. I’m embarrassed.”

Seungkwan’s voice is rushed, too honest. The bluster - flown away. His eyes ardent and warm and fraught with concern. Hansol takes his wrists and lifts his hands away. He manages an unconvincing smile. 

“Of course not.” A breath to steel himself, a squeeze of Seungkwan’s wrists to calm his Prince. “Just don’t care much for losing.”

*

_Hansol was twenty - only a few months ago - when he came to understand that Seungkwan would need to marry._

_It was Seungkwan’s birthday and the snow fell harder than any year before that Hansol can remember. The celebrations were postponed due to the difficulty of travel and instead Seungkwan enjoyed a quiet supper with those that lived at court. It was a stunted occasion and Hansol knew Seungkwan’s desire for attention enough to see his disappointment, his following guilt for not appreciating a secluded moment with his father and mother._

_The stone was cold under Hansol’s stocking feet when he slipped into Seungkwan’s room after they’re dressed for sleep. He practically dived into Seungkwan’s bed to escape the chill and the smell of his bedsheets was too familiar, the glow of his fireplace and how it cast shadows on the walls. Hansol could draw the shapes from memory._

_“Your feet are freezing,” Seungkwan hissed as he adjusted in the bed. It fit them both better when they were smaller. Under the covers and the winter furs, their thighs pressed bare as their sleep shirts rucked up. Hansol laughed in apology, unsteady from the contact and the rebellion of coming to his rooms like this when it had been discouraged so strongly. He wasted no time, presenting an opaque bottle with a suspect brown liquid._

_“Oh god, what is that?” Seungkwan said with wide eyes._

_Hansol looked it over. “Hm, I’m not certain. Jeonghan gave it to me for you to try for your birthday. A type of spirit I think?”_

_“You know we aren’t supposed to have that in the palace,” Seungkwan said cautiously. Still, he took the bottle from Hansol’s hand. With animated curiosity, he popped the cap and smelled the contents, dramatically coughed and wiped at his eyes. “It burns just to smell it.”_

_“I’ve never had spirits,” Hansol grimaced sympathetically. “Have you?”_

_Seungkwan rolled his eyes. “When would I have the opportunity to try something without you knowing? We’re always together.”_

_“Not always.”_

_They drank half the bottle between the two of them, between the hisses and sneers. Hansol thought drinking whatever this was wouldn’t be dissimilar from taking a sword from the forge, sticking down your throat until it touched the bottom of your stomach. The fire sat in his belly, white hot and Seungkwan was too close to him with the excuse that it was too cold not to share their heat._

_“My father is bringing a princess here,” Seungkwan said, his face backlit by the hearth. Hansol laid on his side, Seungkwan on his back, and the liquor had its chance to settle in between them – sticky, spicy, fiery. Beneath the blankets their legs tangled, above Hansol found himself close enough to Seungkwan’s cheek that his own breath disturbed the short hairs of his sideburns._

_“Oh? For what?”_

_Seungkwan narrowed his eyes. “Why do you think?”_

_Perhaps he’d ignored it. The inevitable duties of a crown prince._

_“Oh,” Hansol whispered numbly. “Are you…unhappy about that?”_

_“I don’t know,” Seungkwan huffed. “I enjoy the companionship of women. I just don’t know how to be a husband to one. Not the way you could.”_

_Hansol laughed too loudly, enough for Seungkwan to turn to face him and slap his shoulder. From this position their foreheads nearly touched, eye contact far too direct to keep it. Seungkwan looked away first and worried at the threading of his pillowcase._

_“I don’t think I will ever marry,” Hansol said after a moment._

_Seungkwan opened his eyes wide in sarcastic disbelief. “Does your mother know that?” He paused, reflecting. “What do you even do with a woman?”_

_“Hm, dance with her. Listen to her. Kiss her. I don’t know. What a strange question.”_

_“You’ve kissed a girl and you never told me?” Seungkwan bolted upright and stared down in surprise. Hansol shrugged, cocky and embarrassed seemingly all at once. In truth, she had kissed him and not the other way around. It was dissatisfying, but Seungkwan was green with envy and Hansol was drunk enough to feign that Seungkwan was jealous because it wasn’t him._

_Seungkwan laid back down on his stomach, shoulder resting on Hansol’s. His voice dropped secretive, and he grinned when he said, “Show me what it’s like?”_

_“What?”_

_“We’re friends, aren’t we? You’re supposed to counsel me, aren’t you? Counsel me!” Seungkwan was petulant, theatrical, filled with liquor that made him slur around his words. “What if I kiss this princess and affairs of state are ruined? What if start a war because I’m so offensive to her?”_

_“You’re so drunk, Kwannie.” So was Hansol and Seungkwan’s mouth was close._

_“Just do it. Or are you scared?” Seungkwan goaded._

_It was the quickest taste of lips, over in a moment. Hansol was liquor-addled when he took Seungkwan’s chin between his fingers, pulled him over his body so their chests were flush. He guided the Prince’s mouth down onto his own, so their lips pushed firm and dry together. Seungkwan pulled away in shock, laughing like a lunatic and rolling on the bed in a fit. Hansol stayed still._

_It was a singular thing. Kissing Seungkwan. A snake that uncoiled in him that had been working itself into a knot for several years. And once it had been freed of a prison of his own making it released a poison from its fangs that throbbed in Hansol’s blood. He made an excuse to leave, something about being caught sneaking into his apartments, and he managed his usual placidity so he could stumble back to his own room through the dark hallway._

_Two days later he drunk himself stupid at Seungkwan’s formal birthday celebration. When Seungkwan danced with a thin blonde girl with too wide a mouth and he felt the walls closing in. That was how he told Joshua. In heaving confessions and Joshua’s eyes wide with the sudden tumultuousness of the ever-collected Hansol. He didn’t mention the kiss, but he told Joshua of his envy and how he didn’t want Seungkwan to marry and he supposed Joshua was clever enough to fill in the blank spaces even if Hansol wasn’t._

*

Hansol avoids him as best as he can, but the act of ignoring Seungkwan was like a ship ignoring the pier it was moored to.

They ride out to the lake after six separate duels and, as predicted, Jeonghan does not dive in nude. In the end, it’s Seokmin, Soonyoung, and Mingyu who strip down to nothing and sprint bare down the shoreline. Below the waterline their bodies twist, above they splash and yell. Hansol could rip out his hair at the root when he catches Minghao’s unfettered expression - eyelashes heavy at the sight of Seokmin and Mingyu wrapping tan arms around one another in a boyish playful skirmish. 

Seungkwan stands beside him at the shoreline and they laugh with enough distance between them to be comfortable. They sit with enough distance at dinner. Drink with enough reservation to keep their wits. 

Hansol has developed a skill. It takes straining effort and poise and daily, attentive practice. And that’s expected, because it’s impossible to ignore the sun when it’s beaming down on you. It’s impossible not to love Seungkwan.

He holds it inside him in carefully cupped hands. Like a butterfly, vibrant color and delicate wings. Kept caged by his palms so it won’t fly away, but cautious so he doesn’t crush it in his clumsiness. He doesn’t want to end it, but he certainly can’t set it free. So, he maintains it. He feeds it and watches it grow. He’s let it lie dormant as a chrysalis in the onset of their adulthood and watches it sprout its wings as they’ve become men. 

The garden is insulated from the radiating heat of a summer night. There’s a chill in the air that forces him to wear more clothing than he’s had on all week. The rain is gone, but the foliage collects it and keeps the space between the stone walls damp and musty. There is silence in all the rooms from men too drunk for hours during the day to stay awake through the night.

He writes alone in the dark by the moonlight and the lantern sitting beside him on the bench. He’s forgone his parchment and instead brings the small leather-bound book he keeps private from Seungkwan. Where he can pen deeper thoughts not riddled in metaphor, where he can write with honesty. Not having to coyly speak of a woman when he knows who he truly means to say. 

“Are you restless?” 

Seungkwan stands under the archway, a distance off, but in the quiet of the night even his whisper is loud. Hansol notices that he’s not dressed for sleep either and judging by the position of the moon he’d gone to bed hours ago. He’s pale in the dark, timid when he approaches Hansol’s bench.

“Hm. Are you?” Hansol counters. Not quite an answer. He closes his book as Seungkwan sits beside him, but he stares at the cover as if he’s reading something there that Seungkwan can’t see. There’s an endless silence that’s more familiar from their childhood than as adults. Unspoken anger as boys now the uneasiness of men choosing the right words to say.

“Did I do something wrong?” Seungkwan asks to break it.

“No,” Hansol evades. “Why would you think that?”

When he looks up Seungkwan is small, not half the man he was when he stood over Hansol in the hall. His lashes shadow over his high cheekbones, downcast and pretty. They flourish when he blinks quickly and frowns.

“You’ve been avoiding me since the morning.” Hansol should have expected Seungkwan to notice. “Are you upset that I won?”

Hansol chuckles. If only it _were_ that. “No, it’s not that. I’m sorry. I’ve felt strange all day.”

“Please don’t go inside your head, I can’t follow you there.”

Seungkwan takes his hand where it’s gripped tight in the binding of his book. Their fingers lace together automatically, resting on the splintery wood of the bench between their thighs. Hansol glances downwards to where they are joined and there’s a tightness in his throat, in his chest. Confessions and adoration threatening to erupt out of him. And for as much as their threaded fingers makes him want to scream, it calms him. He realizes that it’s been hours since they’d last touched. He realizes how strange it is not to touch Seungkwan for so long only by the way they touch now.

“Hansol?” Seungkwan whispers. “Will you please tell me what’s wrong?”

The moon is nearly fully tonight, and it cascades like fine polished silver onto the little spot they share in the silence. It colors Seungkwan’s face beautifully. Not like the portrait in the gallery twice Seungkwan’s height and imposing with his vivacious orange silks and magisterial stare. Painted in ochre and vermillion, a mirror-like reflection of his face, yet still with inaccuracies. Hansol knows once they are long gone men will look up at the painting of the young Prince and see his eminence. 

But they will not know him here. Here in his tenderness. With moonbeans in his eyes and the scent of flowers in his hair. Lips shining with the way he runs his tongue over them, unsure. Boyish innocence in his round face, and openness in his stare. Only Hansol will see him this way. He treasures it, is protective of it, molds himself around it.

He can’t help but kiss him. 

The gap between their mouths is small enough that the flash of an impulse can’t be rethought. Hansol leans forward, sips from his mouth and lingers there. It’s unlike the first time, which was seizing and driven by liquor. This is deliberate. The intentional. 

Seungkwan’s fingernails dent into Hansol’s skin where their hands are still clasped. It sends a shock down his spine, brief fear and panic and he’s pulling away quick and poised to run. But Seungkwan chases him with his free hand and his mouth and the gap is closed yet again. Deliberate. Intentional.

Where Hansol is reservation, careful thought, Seungkwan is fits and tantrums. He presses his mouth against Hansol and sighs. The hand that drew him close curls into the hair at Hansol’s neck and makes him shiver. The desire that had lurked there finally gripping tight to the key that unlocks its cage. It’s greedy once it’s out and it possesses Hansol so deeply it’s stifling. He turns his head, lets their mouths slot together and draws Seungkwan’s lips to part for him. 

Neither of them knows what they’re doing. Certainly, in more ways than one. Firstly, they have no idea how to kiss with ease and use fervor to excuse the clumsiness of it. Secondly, anyone could walk into the garden, peer out the window and find Hansol’s hands fisted into Seungkwan’s shirt at his back, find their mouth chasing each other’s through unfamiliar territory. 

Hansol feels the world spin and tilt. Seungkwan’s cheeks are warm under his fingertips and he can’t find enough breath to stop him from being dizzy. There are moments when he regains his confidence and he’s stunned to his core when Seungkwan sighs satisfied into his mouth. 

He must pull away and Seungkwan follows again. This time Hansol puts a firm, but gentle hand against his chest to stop him and frustration and confusion shadows Seungkwan’s face. It makes Hansol smile, makes him feel the prideful glow of knowing he’s desired.

“No,” Hansol pants. “No I just....need a moment.”

“Oh.”

Seungkwan’s breathing is labored, too. He’s searching Hansol’s eyes like he’s reading a book in another language and Hansol knows it’s the ever-confusing complaint that people can never understand him. He takes Seungkwan’s hand, folds his fingers down, and kisses his knuckles. As far as Hansol is concerned, he’s _too_ open. How could Seungkwan ever question the ardor he carried for him? Hansol lugged it around with him everywhere, heavy as a boulder. He’s been shaped by it. Hansol is only is who he’s become because of Seungkwan. Two trees planted too near together that their roots are intertwined.

“What are we doing?” Seungkwan says with a nervous giggle.

Hansol swallows thick. “I don’t know.”

“Well you kissed me…” Seungkwan shrinks, timid. “Why did you kiss me?”

“I wanted to. I’ve wanted to kiss you. We don’t have to.”

“I want to.” He’s sure. Afraid, but sure. 

“Do you?” Hansol asks anyway. 

“Yes.” 

He moves then, swings his thighs over Hansol’s so he can rest in his lap. Reflexively, Hansol grabs the plush of them and clutches them to be sure it’s real. He’s still, head tilted back against the bench and up at Seungkwan. There are thousands of stars around his head, vertiginous and bright, and Seungkwan is looking down at him like he’s the only thing left in the world. 

They kiss again. It’s unlike the first time. It’s unlike the second time. Seungkwan pushes their bodies together and Hansol feels like he’s drowning. Not enough air, not enough light reflecting through the surface to know which way is up. All he can find is the singularity of his heartbeat and the heat of Seungkwan’s body. He touches in all the ways he’s been afraid to. Exploring with the callouses on his palms over Seungkwan’s chest and his back, up the inner parts of his thighs and behind his ears. Boldness has him untying the laces of Seungkwan’s doublet and venturing beneath it. The linen tickles his skin, the heat is more intense, the give to Seungkwan’s sides is intoxicating. 

It’s tremendous and terrible, but Hansol knows now that he’s felt his body this way, he’ll ache for it. He knows now, the exact measure of his hand between the center bone of Seungkwan’s chest to his throat, knows where his belly is the softest and where to find his ribs. He knows now that when he burrows his fingernails into the skin of Seungkwan’s back that Seungkwan will make small, greedy sounds against his lips.

The arousal makes him feel drunk and Seungkwan is moving against him as if he can’t sit still. The slow drag of their bodies together makes Hansol shake, makes him fearful of how much he _wants_. He pulls Seungkwan’s hips down until they’re further flushed together, and each rolling movement of his body provides some needed relief. Hansol tips his head away, groans through pressed lips and feels like the garden around them has been set on fire. The flames are licking high on the walls, the dense smoke choking them.

Seungkwan keens, moves again and again and again until Hansol thinks he might break Seungkwan by gripping him so tightly. He stares up at him helplessly and Seungkwan stares down at Hansol with a slack jaw and wide eyes. As if neither can understand the baffling sensation of it. Hansol knows what it is to touch himself, immoral and unsatisfying. This can’t possibly be immoral. There’s divinity to be found here.

He comes with Seungkwan moving their bodies together through fevered kisses and bruising hands. The world becomes empty for a moment. Spacious and fast and beautiful. And he’s grateful he’s able to find his way back to Seungkwan before the same feeling takes him. 

The center of all things. That’s what Seungkwan is to him. The pink primrose of his lips and the wet earth-dark tone of his hair. The luster of him. Hansol wants to follow him across oceans, into unknowing places. He’d go to the moon if Seungkwan demanded it. 

Breath draws out of them so quickly and so loudly that it’s dangerous. The crushing reality of their actions not quite taking hold through the haze. Seungkwan rests his forehead against Hansol’s neck and Hansol envelops him with arms he can’t stop from trembling. He wants to keep him tightly held there, legs splayed like a foal in his lap and shaking with heaviness of something new. Hansol holds a future sovereign, who has the weight of a people and miles of earth and borders of oceans. Hansol holds a boy, who sings loud and plays with children and loves him best.

In the stillness of the night, they find each other and the world once more. They kiss again and again before either of them can consider the dawn. 

**Author's Note:**

> [my twitter](https://twitter.com/lithomancy) / [my curiouscat](https://curiouscat.qa/lithomancy)


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